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  “I ought to send him flowers.”

  “You know, I think he wouldn’t mind. But I think he’d rather you go and see his show. You know how insecure actors are.”

  She lifts her face to mine and kisses my mouth tenderly. “I want to make love but I really am so very tired, Adam.”

  “I’m fine, honey. Don’t you worry.”

  She rolls onto her side and sighs, sounding happy. I lie just behind her, my hand resting on the curve of her hip.

  “I know what you did this morning, by the way,” she mutters.

  “What? Nothing, that’s what.”

  “I know what boxers you were wearing this morning. They aren’t in the basket at the top. I don’t even have to go fishing, I know. I just know these things, Adam.”

  I kiss her shoulder. “Are you mad?”

  “No, as long as you were thinking about me.”

  “Yeah, your legs…”

  “Dirty boy.”

  Within a few minutes, she’s sound asleep, exhausted from her full day.

  I lie on my back and turn everything over and over.

  After a while, I feel a tear or two leak from my eyes and sink into the pillow beneath my head.

  She’s my girl. My wife.

  I can’t help it… I love her.

  I really do.

  Chapter Five

  We enjoy a couple of weeks of domestic bliss and then she lets me know about the appointment and gingerly asks if I want to come. I tell her of course I’m coming. She tells me it’s about her eggs – to find out whether she has a good enough reserve for IVF, so maybe there’s no need for me to come, but I tell her I’m still coming.

  The doctor and I talk in secret the day before the appointment and discuss the fact that I’m waiting for Susan to admit her problems rather than confronting her about them. She doesn’t like the situation at all but agrees maybe it’s best for Susan to be allowed to come clean. At the appointment, it will be hard for her to keep up the pretence and we both know that. I assure the doctor I’ve been privately dealing with the shock and that once it all does come out, hopefully I’ll be able to stand by her instead of being blindsided like I was two weeks ago.

  I’ve started to wonder if Susan’s ex made her like this. Did he belittle her because of her reproductive challenges? Has she got mental issues because she lost her mother so young? Since I told her I would go through IVF if that’s what she wants, she’s seemed so much happier, working less, home more, even looking radiant.

  What I’m still a little uneasy about is the lies. Why didn’t she tell me? Doesn’t she believe I love her enough to get past these things? We’ve been together for three years now and I know everyone has secrets, some best kept under wraps, but I would’ve thought it wouldn’t hurt for her to a) tell me her real age, b) tell me she was once engaged, c) tell me about her condition and d) tell me it’s her with the fertility problem, not me. All this time, if she had only told me about her endometriosis, I could’ve been better equipped to be a caring husband, to know what she needs and that sometimes it isn’t about me at all. It’s just her needing to recover.

  I talk it all over with Lily and Theo on the phone. Aside from the doctor, they’re the only people who know about all this.

  Then I sleep uneasily the night before the appointment. She sleeps soundly, completely oblivious of the fact that I know everything.

  Maybe, people looking from the outside in would say I seem to know her better than she even knows herself. Armed with this knowledge, I know how much power I really hold… and it terrifies me. It does.

  Tomorrow will be a fateful day, I feel it.

  Dr Gillan welcomes us into her consultation room and while Susan is putting her coat on the back of her chair and generally faffing, the doctor looks at me and reveals her strain, but only to me. She paints on a professional smile as soon as Susan is seated.

  “So, we’re here to talk about next steps going forward.”

  “Yes,” Susan says, and I can tell she’s excitable. It’s in her voice, in her breathing, in the way she’s arched herself towards Dr Gillan, as though to hear her better. “As we discussed on the phone, Adam agrees IVF is the best way forward.”

  Dr Gillan told me about Susan having rung her and told her this same thing. The doctor countered with an argument for including me in any further discussion. Apparently, Susan tried to insist upon no need for further discussion. As far as she’s concerned, it’s a done deal.

  “We need to discuss how your endometriosis lowers the chances of success,” the doctor begins, and I feel sick just hearing it spoken out loud in the room. “It’s only right everyone understands the process.”

  I take my cue and clear my throat. “What’s endometriosis?” I say it very slowly, like I’ve never heard of it before.

  I glance to my side and Susan is no longer excited. In fact, she’s leaning back into her chair with one arm folded across her stomach and holding the elbow of her other arm, her chin in her palm. She’s shrinking before my very eyes, sinking, drowning. She says nothing.

  I reach across and put my hand on her leg, trying to remind her I’m here, or at least, reassuring her I’m not running… yet.

  “It’s a complication,” the doctor explains. “The tissue that ordinarily only appears in the lining of the womb also grows in other areas of the pelvis such as the bowel, the ovaries, even the bladder. Endometrial tissue thickens and bleeds in the same sort of way it might during the normal menstrual cycle, except this cycle can be unpredictable and a woman can bleed this way for weeks at a time. It’s incredibly painful and can drastically reduce fertility as it has done for Susan. Many sufferers need surgeries to tackle the damage. For a few people, a hysterectomy is their only option.”

  Susan starts shaking her head and stands up, walks to the back of the room and grips the edge of the patient bed, still shaking her head.

  “I thought it had gone,” she almost growls, “I thought I was getting better. When we were married, it wasn’t bad anymore. I thought it was gone. But we still weren’t conceiving.”

  The pain in her voice lingers around the room and I want to go to her but I’m also afraid. This is a medical setting and we’re here to talk about the implications… get the serious stuff out of the way. We can discuss the emotional side of all this later.

  The doctor gives me a sympathetic smile. “Susan had some small surgeries before. Usually it can be done through keyhole very successfully. Sometimes surgery is a temporary reprieve, but in other cases, the benefits can be felt for months or years after. Every patient is different, which is key to remember.”

  Now I know why she’s fond of fancy lingerie sets… why she always hides her stomach beneath bubbles in the bath… why the lights always must be turned off if I’m going down on her or if we’re making love entirely naked.

  “Susan, honey, please come and sit back down. Please,” I ask, begging.

  She walks slowly back to her chair and stares daggers at the doctor for outing her secret. I try to put my arm around her but she shakes me away.

  “Just tell me my dream is over,” she demands, “just tell me. For fuck’s sake. Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”

  Bitter and angry, I don’t like the sound of this person. She’s not my caring, dutiful, happy wife. No. This person… this is who my darling really is… and she hid this pain from me… all this time.

  “We just need to know what’s possible,” I beg the doctor, trying not to get upset as she stares at me hopelessly.

  “Susan does have egg reserves. Enough to try IVF. But there is only a thirty per cent chance another cycle of IVF might work.”

  Susan is on her feet again, fists clenched and body rigid. “Doctor, I thought we said… I thought we understood one another?”

  I’m ready to restrain her if necessary but Dr Gillan still doesn’t look convinced she’s safe. She gulps and whispers, “Your husband deserves to know the truth so that he can support you through whate
ver may come. You won’t get through this unless you have him. It’s my duty to do the right thing by the patient and telling your husband about the risks and chances of conception is just me doing my job. You can’t ask me for a miracle, Susan. That’s not how it works. You can only ask me to do my job and this is me, doing it.”

  The doctor’s chin wobbles profusely before all the tension in her body gives out and she turns in her swivel chair, reaching for a tissue.

  “Another cycle?” I whisper.

  “Susan did two before with another partner,” Dr Gillan explains through tears. “But the good news is, there have been advancements since then. We have new drugs to abate the endo and we can, well, we can only keep trying, if that’s what you want. We can do that.”

  I say nothing. I don’t react. Maybe Susan believes my weak fool act, or maybe she knows I’ve known all along. I don’t know.

  All I know, right in this very moment, is that Susan desperately wants a baby. I know it in my soul, or why else would she have lied, manipulated and tried this twice before already? Is she trying to fill a hole inside her by having a baby? Perhaps this desperate yearning for a family is somehow linked to her losing her own mother.

  Either way, like the doctor said, we can only try. Whatever happens, if a baby does arrive, the baby will have me and I will always take care of it. I know that now. I’ve come to terms with letting go of my childhood and latching onto something new.

  “What about the chances of conceiving naturally?” I whisper, because that’s my preferred method and always will be… if there’s even a remote chance.

  “Susan’s reliant on drugs that prevent her from bleeding but she could come off them, in which case she’d probably be in much more pain… but there’s a chance, the same with anything. There’s a chance. And pregnancy is known to help with the symptoms. It’s a magic cure really.”

  “But the bleeding might complicate conception?” I ask, needing total and utter clarity.

  “IVF increases your chances of conception in Susan’s case. It promises to be more successful than trying naturally.”

  The doctor explained IVF the first time we were here, after my first sample was taken and Susan wanted it explained to us exactly what IVF is. I understand her eggs will have to be harvested and pretty much all I have to do is spunk in a cup. She will be on drugs to encourage her eggs to mature. She will be on drugs to create the ideal environment in the womb for insemination. She’ll be pumped full of stuff that, some studies have shown, is bad for you.

  But, there’s a chance.

  “Doctor, please just tell us what your honest opinion is.”

  Dr Gillan stares down her nose at me. “Susan’s disease is advanced. If you want to maximise your chances, the time is now, Mr Hartley. It’s now, I am afraid. But I won’t lie to you, I’ve done this for a long, long time and sometimes biology throws something else up that works in your favour, sometimes it works against you. This is no guarantee. This is only a chance. That’s all it is. And we can only work with the small chance we have. I make no promises. You have to be pragmatic about your choice. There were two failed cycles before.”

  “But there’s a chance,” Susan says, sounding fierce, “there’s a chance. And we’ve come to you because you’re meant to be the best. I heard… I heard it from someone who was trying for twelve years before you helped them.”

  There’s my Susan, risen from the ashes of her broken dreams, still chasing that chance.

  “There’s also surrogacy, adoption… there is always a chance,” the doctor urges gently, as though she fears for Susan more than she fears failure as a doctor. She fears what this might do to Susan’s state of mind if IVF doesn’t work… and she has to face reality.

  She might never carry a baby. Ever.

  “We’ve talked about this doctor; my dream is to carry my own baby. My husband’s baby. That’s my dream. Can you work with my dream? Huh? Both of you? Can you work with me?”

  I turn and catch Susan’s ragged expression, her red eyes and cheeks blotchy.

  “We can work with it,” I muster, and Susan’s chest heaves with relief.

  “Okay,” she nods, “okay. Okay.”

  I drive us home from the clinic in silence. The journey takes a while. It’s one of those clinics tucked away in the middle of nowhere. No doubt celebrities enjoy the privacy.

  Throughout the journey Susan fidgets in her chair. I know my car doesn’t compare to hers but she could at least try to sit comfortably! She’s forever twisting and turning in her seat, fiddling with her skirt and pulling her seatbelt in different directions, like she’s hoping to find a position that suits her. I say nothing but as the journey goes on, I realise she’s uncomfortable because she’s out of her comfort zone. She’s got no leverage now. I know all her secrets and she can’t manipulate me anymore. She can’t tell me her dreams are hampered by me or by anyone else. We’re giving her what she wants. She’s getting IVF, even if it means potential failure and the loss of her beautiful car. She’ll have to drive my car to the shops now… my boring Vauxhall, grey and with only the standard five gears.

  She’s silent and I don’t have the energy to start a conversation that will inevitably lead to confrontation, tantrums and tears. Either we’re saving it for when we get home, or she’s not planning to talk to me at all.

  When we arrive home and I pull on the drive, she’s straight out of the vehicle and goes inside. I can’t keep up. I lock the vehicle and walk in through the open front door, hearing the bedroom door slam upstairs and the bolt on the door fastened, locking me out.

  The worst thing about all of this is that it feels like I’m being judged – and I did nothing wrong. I did absolutely nothing wrong.

  Is she even fit to be a parent?

  Wouldn’t this be much easier with someone who doesn’t hide her problems from me?

  Are there other things she’s hidden from me?

  Where does it end?

  I try to shake off this feeling of utter dread and grab a snack and a can of coke from the fridge, heading up to the attic to catch up on some work. I took this afternoon off to go with her to the clinic but I might as well use any time I have left to get a couple of hours in, before the inevitable onslaught of emotional crap ensues, later on tonight.

  I’m powering up my machine when she stomps up the stairs, flying into the room in jeans and t-shirt, her cleaning clothes. So, she didn’t even get to the cleaning. She couldn’t even make it there. She has to offload on me first.

  I keep my eyes fixed on my monitor, only able to see what she’s wearing and how she looks from the reflection of her I can see in the TV screen on the wall in front of me, switched off currently.

  She’s breathing harshly, and not just from having ran up the stairs. She’s angry as hell and even angrier I’m not rising to it.

  “Well?” she barks, and I close my eyes, take a deep breath and spin around in my chair.

  This could go one of two ways. Either we keep doing things her way, or I start doing something different.

  When I see her eyes, her hands on her hips, her whole demeanour crying out for a fight… I see what it is that’s really angered her. She isn’t in control anymore. It’s been taken from her. Ripped out of her arms… gone. Her secrets aren’t hers anymore.

  “I knew the past two weeks were too good to be true. I knew it,” she says, shaking and dancing on her bare feet, like I disgust her but she’s even more disgusted by herself. “You found out, didn’t you? And now you pity me. Now you feel sorry for me. That’s what it’s been. All the baths, the dinners, the massages, the walks on Sundays, the spontaneous shopping trips… none of that is you. None of it. You fucking pity me, admit it. You fucking pity me.”

  “No, I love you,” I tell her, my face so numb, I must look ashen.

  She shakes her head. “No. No. I know you. You hate shopping. You hate all that crap. You hate it. No. You feel sorry for me because now you know, don’t you? Now you know about my
hideous insides… about my churned-up mess of a pelvis… you know that I’m fucked and you feel sorry for me.”

  She’s intentionally angering me and she knows it. I know it. She knows it. I’m angered. And now I’m going to react. She asked for this.

  I walk to her, grab her upper arms and sit her down in the chair I was just occupying.

  “You will fucking listen to me, Susan. You will damn well listen good.” I pace the room, biting my nails, biting my tongue, my inner cheek. I would say all sorts, but I want to sound reasonable because at the end of the day, that’s what I am. I’m a reasonable man. I’m solid. Straight. I’m dependable. I might be boring but I’m here, and I always have been.

  “I don’t have any idea who you really are. My own wife.” My lip curls with self-hate and I shake my head at myself for being so stupid. “You’re older than me, so what? Why didn’t you tell me? And the fiancé? Oh my god, really? That’s worse than the age thing. But the very worst and the most hurtful thing is that you kept your health issues from me. You kept them from me so cleverly, hiding everything about your problems.”

  She looks into her lap, still and sullen, as though she’s turned off her hearing. I don’t care, though. I have things to say.

  “How could you not have said anything? The times when sex was painful for you, you never said a thing and I thought I’d really injured you. I thought it was me who was guilty and depraved. And worse yet, you lied to me and made me think my balls were useless. I mean, what were you trying to do? Make me feel as bad as what you do? What? Because that is downright sadistic and nasty. And yet, the past two weeks, I’ve been quietly coming to terms with the fact that maybe, fucking maybe, my wife isn’t the heartless bitch people think she is. Maybe she’s just a bit broken and needs me. And that’s what I’ve been doing, which I would’ve done all along, if you’d just let me in. But you didn’t. You don’t trust me with your secrets. Hell, what other secrets do you have? Because the more I unearth, the more seems to spring out of the woodwork. So please, continue telling me how bad a husband I am. Please. Tell me how I’ve made you feel. Because believe me, you made me feel about an inch big and even after that, all I’ve tried to do is put myself in your shoes and empathise and understand. Because I love you. But you don’t believe in that, do you? I’m just another commodity in your life, or maybe not even that. I’m a… I don’t know what I am. Something else you need to micromanage?”